But, just as I start to think how hard we have it, an unconscious decision is made (if it was conscious I’d tell you who made it), to once again flip through the Toronto Archives, to remind me that I’m just being a whiny little bitch.

Maybe it’s because life was simple then that the frosty elements didn’t bother people so much. Maybe the people were simple.

Note the position of the SHUTTLECOCK behind the net where it has just been introduced by Flaily O’Flappy on the right there. So, you know, considering that SHUTTLECOCKS are actually designed to slow down as they fly, you’d think he’d have enough time to follow this one – savour his victory. But instead he’s gazing straight up and to the left like he’s just spotted a masturbating squirrel in a nearby tree. His jaw is dropping, that’s how stupefied he is.

Then there’s the issue of his opponent, the guy who, at a very casual glance seems to have just missed the shot. But if you look at the picture for more than half a second you see that the guy is way too far back to ever hope for getting that return, seems not to be in too much of a hurry anyways (casual hand on hip), and is swatting at a very wrong spot. That’s if he’s swatting at all because his posture, that look, the whole package, they say gleeful resignation to me.

The skates are really more of a sidebar at this point.

I wonder, was every winter costume so penisy? I may have to wear a bulky parka, coif-destroying toque, and highly overrated gloves, but I think I prefer those to looking like an early twentieth century dick.

I guess protecting oneself from the elements wasn’t a priority in 1911. At the top of a Riverdale Park hill there, that’s Charles Houghtington the Third of “Where’s Waldo” fame (odd about the name really) — before the fame. At this point he was just sporting his trademark striped socks and a coat that said “I just don’t care”. I guess that’s pretty cool. Sadly, this would be among Charles’ last trips down the hill; the whole group was involved in a fatal high-speed collision with a cow. In the carnage that followed, apparently, it was impossible to tell where one body began and another ended. No one could find Waldo. And that’s pretty much how the whole sad book project got started.

Here’s anther example of how rough people had it back in the early nineteen hundreds; this whole community had to share a single toboggan at High Park. Note the lady at the left of this photo, so cold that she’s willing to abandon sensible dress for parading around as a warm winter cabbage. Dreadful.

Okay, and here are a bunch of people hanging around in an ice boat, ready to head out onto Lake Ontario. Notice something unusual? That’s right, they’re all donning impractical head gear. Once again this is at the turn of the century and obviously health and safety regulations don’t yet exist. So, people had to make due with puffy hats. Note the lady at the back is playing it extra safe.

And here we have Stan and Yosh Shmenge, obviously sharing a single pair of skis between them at some Toronto park. The poles were a symbol of prestige in the thirties, but with skis … wow, the perceived power emanating  from that guy’s groinal area would be unbelievable. Skis were the shit. That’s why anyone on them could afford to dress like a total dork.

Lest we forget the conjoined Quinzy quintuplets, seen here at the Old Orchard skating club. Most people in the twenties were horribly deformed, they were just able to conceal it well through snappy banter, flapper jigs, and sounding exactly like Edward G. Robinson; nyah, seee?

SHUTTLECOCK.

I rest my case.

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I then typically follow up by popping open a browser (this is usually at work), hitting TCL, and showing them last year’s thing. “Wow, you’d never catch me out there freezing my ass off”, is typically the next statement. “Well, you keep warm by virtue of shared body heat. That’s what makes the evening so magical; improper touching”, I try to sell it. But that’s usually not enough. After revelations that there’s no booze and that the place is swarming with kids, the conversation just peters off into other subjects, “So … Toronto City Life … what is that, a government website?” “Yup.” “Not very interesting.” “Yeah.” ”Have lunch yet?” “Nope.”

People are too jaded. Perhaps because they’re hungry. The Cavalcade of Lights, with this year’s record lack of snow, didn’t really classify as a winter event, so all that hoopla about buttocks falling of in the cold were for naught. The kids were there, but you couldn’t hear them over the din of the show and any ones caught underfoot were pretty much fair game so that problem wasn’t overly daunting. I managed to get up to the front of the crowd with barely any resistance:

The alcohol prohibition thing is also a bit of a moot point. I was not once searched even though I carried a bag big enough to conceal a small keg. A mickey stolen away in a coat pocket would most certainly have gone unnoticed, or you could do as any self-respecting adult would and simply go already lubricated. Essentially, sobriety is for children, the infirm, and stupid people.

But I don’t want to get hung up on methods of smuggling drinks in because with the kind of cover you get in both the scenery and the crowd, you can pretty much set up a temporary shelter where you and your junkie friends can shoot up in complete privacy. Drinking? Please, the cops have bigger things to worry about. Like heroin addicts. Or those guys that sell all that light-up crap that the kids use once before it explodes toxically in the car on the way home. Domestic-quality Chinese products are always hit-and-miss:

The best way to avoid these shuckers of mens’ wallets is to simply avoid them. Look for the guys with the craziest head gear — dead giveaway — and beeline it in the other direction. If you have children with you, a) Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Hehe! Hahaha! *wipe tear* Oh man. Why would you do something like that? and b) Avert their gaze from crazy hat guy. If nothing else, at least save yourself some cash.

I managed to avoid most of the vendors by pushing my through the thickest part of the crowd, mostly elderly and children — easy!

I don’t know what it is with Citytv but every year they choose the dorkiest personalities they have to introduce the acts. Seriously, the weather guy?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against Michael Kuss; nothing for him either. He is adequate in his role to deliver the weather report in a timely manner. That is all.

For something exceptional, we need only look beyond Michael’s adequate head to see City Hall looming expectantly, waiting to be lit up like some kind of incendiary device:

To me, this is the real reason to go; a grand fireworks display that goes off way too close to City Hall. I know that immaculate planning goes into this thing, but who can predict that one unexpected gust of wind, or that one errant firework that’s just a little too far off course? Now you’ve got the holiday display of the season!

There were no showers of jagged glass or flaming audience members so, sadly, the errant firework didn’t happen this year. But the explosions packed a good wallop and this scared the kids, so it was satisfactory. Also, the Christmas tree at City Hall was unveiled during the show and this is more the official tree of Toronto I was thinking of. It’s a massive beast of a white spruce, about 18 meters (60 feet) tall and laden with an indecent amount of decoration. Hard to miss. Unfortunately, it makes for a difficult photo but while I work at it you can get a sense of the tree in the background here:

Even though the celebration’s over, the skating rink remains open until spring so there’s plenty of opportunity to watch people hurt themselves. Say what you will about City Hall, it can occasionally be very entertaining. Even in the cold.

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